Ninepins
by MassiveMilkshakeNerd
Summary: Holmes is bored. Watson suggests they play a game.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own either Mr. Sherlock Holmes or Dr. Watson. All rights belong to the author, Arthur Conan Doyle. I am merely using his characters and story for entertainment.**

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"What a dreadful day, Watson."

It wasn't unusual for the great detective to act this way: hands behind his back, peering out the window at the gloomy state of London, an impassive expression on his face, though clearly, to his companion, exasperated at having no case or mystery to get to work on.

"It is indeed, Holmes," his associate replied. "But it's always like this, you know."

The detective turned around to face his companion. "I need something. Something to stimulate my mind!"

"Indeed! What do you suggest we do?"

He moved away from the window to sit in his high-back chair, puffing absent-mindedly on his pipe. The light that shone from the gas lamp made him look eerie. "I'm afraid I have no idea as to what we should do." He then took his violin out of its case and began to play.

"Holmes, must you play that infernal thing?"

The detective raised an eyebrow. "Is it bothering you, Watson?"

"Well, yes."

"Unless you have something else for me to do, I suggest you sit down and listen. I fear this will be a long night."

His companion sat down in his own chair with a sigh. He might have just gone up to bed, but the detective seemed so riled up with unexpended energy tonight; he might as well humor him.

"That's very good of you."

"Hmph."

The evening wore on, Holmes playing the violin and Watson regretfully listening to it. You could sense the detective's irritation growing as he continued to play. Watson just couldn't stand it any longer. "Holmes, what do you say we play a game?"

He put the violin down and looked keenly at his companion. "A game?"

"Yes, a game."

"Mmm. What kind of game?"

He got up from his chair and headed toward his bedroom door, smiling. "You shall see."

A moment later he returned, placing a dusty and rather old and beaten box on the oak table. The detective strode over to the table with interest. When he saw what the box contained he all but outright laughed at the man. "My dear, dear, Watson. I really hadn't expected this of you. But I suppose I should have."

His associate frowned. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Why, Watson, this is a game that drunkards and revelers have gambled and bet over."

"We are not drunk, nor are we gambling."

The detective sat back down in his chair. "It is much too menial a game. It will not stimulate me in the way that a good mystery can." He then resumed his violin playing.

His companion placed his hands on his hips and frowned. "Now look here, Holmes. You said you had nothing to do. I have brought this out in the hope you might enjoy yourself. It must be better than brooding like you've been doing all day."

"On the contrary, it amuses me greatly that my playing the violin should irritate you just as much as I."

He sighed and made to put the game away.

"Watson."

He turned around and saw the detective getting up from his chair, smiling apologetically. "I'm sorry if I abused your feelings, Watson. I shall play the game with you if you so desire."

"Really, Holmes?"

"Of course. It is my duty to look after your wants, after all."

"No one asked you to look after me, or my wants."

The detective patted him on the back. "That just makes it all the more special, doesn't it? And who doesn't love a good game of ninepins?"

His companion smiled weakly. "Y-yes."

They played multiple rounds of the game well into the night. A boyish enthusiasm appeared on the detective's face as he beat his companion numerous times and he couldn't help but smile at him, despite his defeat. They played until they heard the shrill cries of Mrs. Hudson, waking up the rest of the tenants along with her.

And the fog slowly lifted from Baker Street.

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 **A/N: 'Ninepins' was the earlier version of bowling.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own either Mr. Sherlock Holmes or Dr. Watson. All rights belong to the author, Arthur Conan Doyle. I am merely using his characters and story for entertainment.**

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Screams of rage and protest were heard from the floor below and the two friends looked at each other. The detective, with an amused smirk, said, "I suppose we should cease playing this game of ours, Watson, or I'm afraid we shall be kicked out."

"I wasn't winning, anyhow."

"Yes," he agreed. "You aren't very good at it. I think you should practice a bit more before we play that game again."

His companion stood up indignantly. "Just because you have won so many times! Now you wish to play the game-!"

"Hush, Watson. Not now. She is coming."

He sat down, unwilling to question the detective's statement.

A pounding that could have easily broken the door down if the detective hadn't opened it first resounded throughout the whole apartment building. The landlady stood there in the door, breathing heavily, a fierce look in her eyes. She looked up, seeing him standing there before her in an infuriatingly serious manner, and cried, "Holmes! You!" Upon noticing the man sitting in one of the chairs near the fire, "Dr. Watson! How dare you make so much noise in the middle of the night! I have tolerated your informants coming to this door on many occasions! When you play your violin at insufferable times of the night I do not say a word! Yet here you are, doing only God knows what, and waking me and all the other tenants up! Who do you think you are?"

The detective spoke loudly so that his companion might hear him, "She's right, Watson. We shouldn't have been making such a racket this late at night." He turned to face the woman who was still panting and red-faced. "I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Hudson. It will not happen again. You have my word."

The landlady scowled at him and crossed her arms over her chest. "Your word doesn't mean much to me."

"Oh, my. But I have paid you well?"

"Not nearly enough for what you put me through, Holmes!"

He chuckled. "I see. Well, then. Watson, have you anything to say to the poor lady?"

His companion bowed nervously, repeating over and over, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson. It will not happen again, Mrs. Hudson."

With a "hmph!" she stormed down the stairs and back to her room, muttering curses and other things.

"Please do tell the others how sorry we are!" the detective called after her teasingly.

"Come down and tell them yourself!" was all she said.

Sighing and shaking his head, the detective walked over to his chair and sat down. "Strange creature, that woman," he muttered, mostly to himself, as he began to refill his pipe.

"Do you think she might have liked to play a round of ninepins?" his associate asked earnestly.

After lighting his pipe, and a bit of thought, he said, "I do not think so. She doesn't seem to me to be that kind of person."

"I didn't know you were so very adept at ninepins, Holmes. Perhaps she is good at games and we just don't know it yet?"

"...Perhaps." The detective continued to smoke his pipe. After a moment's silence, he asked, "Watson?"

"Yes?"

"Does my playing the violin aggravate you? Or rather, does it sound that bad?"

His companion didn't know what to say. _Or rather_ , he was afraid to say it. "Well..."


End file.
